The Dog Days

 

I hate to use this term because it seems awfully mean-spirited to dogs, but we have officially entered the “dog days of summer.” This is that mid-August through Labor Day time period when most people have already taken their vacations, and now there is nothing exciting to look forward to except soul-crushing humidity and back-to-school sales at Target. Even writing this blog is a chore, ‘Ok, what should I write about today…wait, I know, how about the scourge of ingrown toenails?”

What follows is a rambling, incoherent string of observations that have been on my mind recently:

My favorite game is in some serious trouble, sports fans. Sunday night, a Little League World Series game between teams from Philadelphia and Texas beat a Big League game between Atlanta and Oakland in the ratings. Yes, that’s right. Oakland, with the best record in baseball played the Atlanta Braves, another decent team on television and more Americans preferred to watch the 12 year olds play. There are many reasons for this, not the least of which is…Little League baseball is AWESOME. The kids play with reckless abandon. They don’t stop to adjust their batting gloves after each pitch. They run the bases like their hair is on fire. When they get a hit or make a great catch their faces light up the screen with broad, unashamed glee. Their parents cry in the stands. In other words, they are having fun and they don’t care who knows it. Big league players look like they are at work. They play the game with unsurpassed skill, but take forever doing it, as if they are getting paid by the hour. The only expression on their faces is one of earnest determination, as if smiling were...er…frowned upon. There might not be any crying in baseball, but whatever happened to laughter, joy, and fun?

There are two professions where you are allowed to be constantly wrong without fear of losing your job: politicians and weathermen.

I have been playing Words with Friends now for the better part of three years. I have finally found a group of seven letters out of which no English word can be formed, at least I can’t think of one. U U Z R R R I. I share this with you to see if any of you are smarter than I am (very likely).

Johnny Manziel played in his second preseason game last night and he has already shot the bird to an opponent. It takes some quarterbacks years before they master the refined skill of bad sportsmanship. I can name a list of hundreds of NFL quarterbacks who played in the league for years before perfecting the ability to completely lose their composure on the field, and Manziel has it figured out in week two. This kid is gonna go places!

Give Food a Chance

I saw a movie last night that affected me deeply in two ways. It gave me hope and made me hungry.

The One Hundred Foot Journey is an imperfect film in that although it is terrifically acted and beautiful to look at, it does suffer from idealistic overkill and at least one major plot defect that probably went unnoticed by most viewers.

First the plot defect. How does a family from India who has just lost everything in a tragic fire and who are now reduced to wandering the European continent with all of their meager belongings packed into a beat up bucket of bolts, whose brakes fail just outside a small town somewhere in France leaving them all wondering how they will be able to afford to pay for repairs, suddenly find the money to buy a large restaurant? A quibble, I know.

Now for the idealistic overkill. The town that the Kadams stumble into is in the French countryside. The restaurant that the family purchases is just outside of town, right across the street from the best restaurant within 50 miles, a beautiful, majestic building that has earned one Michelin star. The two establishments are one hundred feet apart in distance and a thousand miles apart culturally. It is hard for me to believe that a place like this exists anywhere in the world. The weather is perfect. Everyone dines al fresco 24 hours a day. Even when it rains, it’s romantic. In the entire movie, I never saw a car drive down the road that separates the restaurants. In town, an impossibly quaint sidewalk café features children playing hopscotch in the middle of the patrons while birds flutter above them. If there actually exists such a peaceful, unhurried place in France, then “Honey, where’s my passport?”

The story is simple enough. The Kadams owned a restaurant back in Mumbai, a true family business, all hands on deck sort of place. Hasan, the oldest has been taught the art of cooking by his mother, who tragically dies in the fire. All this family knows is cooking and serving food, so naturally they try to make a new start. First they try England, but in the best line of the film explain that they had to leave England because, "the vegetables had no soul." So, they finally decide to compete against the French. The culture clash is immediate and complete. Madame Mallory, the widowed proprietor objects to the loud music, the kitschy décor, the smell of curry and just about everything else she can think to bring to the local constable. What she really objects to is the competition and the amazing skill of Hasan who although lacking formal training, has “the gift.” Of course, romance is soon in the air along with the aroma of spices old and new. Hasan starts falling for Marguerite, the doe-eyed chef in training across the street, and Papa and Madame Mallory, against all odds, unbelievably fall for each other.

The appeal of this film is in the conflict of cultures. The French, representing the “classical” definition of high culture and the Kadams representing the immigrant “other.” Once the Indian cuisine starts to attract customers, and especially once the French chefs realize that Hasan has more talent than they do, the Kadams face some backlash in the form of Molotov cocktails and a racial slur painted across the wall in front of the place. When Madame Mallory fires the chef she suspects of instigating the vandalism and shows up at the wall, scrub-brush in hand to remove the slur, relations begin to thaw. Then she does something that successful countries do with immigrants…she co-opts them. She hires Hasan and paves the way for him to attend a French cooking school in Paris. He becomes famous because of his talent, but ultimately tires of Paris, returns to Marguerite and lives happily ever after.

One scene in particular stood out for me. At one point Madame Mallory tastes one of Hasan’s variations on one of the five classic sauces of French cuisine. She asks what the strange taste is and why he would want to change a sauce that has been around for 200 years. Hasan answers, “Maybe 200 years is long enough.”

When I look around the world I see nothing but violence and strife, most of it either religious or ethnic. Whether it’s in the Middle East, Africa, on our southern border or in Ferguson, Missouri, we have a hard time co-existing with “the other.” Maybe we can learn something from this heart-warming film. Maybe we can all sit down and eat good food together. There is precedent for peace through eating. While Americans are understandably concerned about the gusher of illegal immigrants from Mexico and Central America, we have absolutely no problem with their food. Mexican restaurants are every where in Short Pump and they are all amazing. Americans might have some resentment at the number of Asain-Americans who win Valedictorian awards, but we love their food. Recent graduates in computer science might resent the stiff competition they get from new arrivals from India, but if they would sit down for a meal at Anokha they might fall in love with the Tandoori platter.

Call me crazy, but I believe in an America who welcomes all who come here (legally), and takes the best of what they bring to the great big American table. If we can sit down and eat with someone, it’s much more difficult to give in to fear and hatred. The more savory dishes, the better. I enjoy nothing more than a plate of mashed potatoes with gravy, string beans, and fried chicken, with a glass of sweet tea to wash it down. But I love living in a country where I can be welcomed into a Chinese restaurant for a helping of orange beef and honey shrimp.

Give food a chance, give peace a chance.

Peace, out.

 

I think that after 56 years on this earth, I have finally learned that when it comes to matters of race, it is best not to have an opinion.

Whether it’s the Trayvon Martin episode or the Ferguson, Missouri riots, there seems to me no middle ground upon which reasonable people can plant a flag of common sense. The emotions are too raw, the optics too explosive, the ancient resentments still too raw.

Criticize the policeman for using excessive force and poor judgment in the death of Michael Brown, and you are judged to be unsympathetic to the plight of besieged policemen and ignorant of the daily dangers they face for our protection.

Criticize the appearance of storm-trooper-like policemen wielding machine guns and armored vehicles as a dangerous militarization of law enforcement, and you will be judged as soft on law and order.

Communicate concern over the surge in gun sales in and around Ferguson as a potential dangerous escalation and you become an anti-second amendment liberal.

Offer an observation on the breakdown of the African-American family today as a possible contributor to the lawless destruction of property in Ferguson, and you become a “blame the victim” racist.

Use the term “African-American” and you are complicit in the balkanization of America.

Point out the fact that using the occasion of a tragic death of a teenager at the hands of a policeman to stock up on tennis shoes and Bud Lite might not be an appropriate expression of your anger, and you are just another privileged white guy who doesn’t understand life in the hood.

Lament the arrival of Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson on the scene and you are excused of trying to pick their leaders for them.

Point out the fact that since we are having so much trouble keeping the peace in the inner cities of America, perhaps we should stop trying to keep the peace in Iraq, and you are a dangerous isolationist.

Point out the fact that 6 years ago many liberals told us that the election of Obama was going to usher in a “post-racial America” and you are accused of hating him because he’s black.

Share your heartfelt opinion that the solution to the scourge of racial hatred in America can only be wiped out by a transformation of the heart which can only be accomplished by spiritual means and you are a religious fanatic bent on establishing a theocracy.

So, excuse me while I change the channel to ESPN and hunker down here in the suburbs. Engaging in this battle is a fight I am destined to lose.

Peace, out.

A Lost Puppy

 

This morning, I’m feeling a bit embarrassed. Although I am a grown man of reasonable intelligence and a passable resume of accomplishment, I have been reduced to bumbling incompetence because of the temporary absence of two women from my life.

My Administrative Assistant, Kristin Reihl, had the temerity to request time off for a vacation with her family at some lake estate in Minnesota. This has left me alone and vulnerable at my office. Since her departure, I have presented and closed five cases, all of which sit in a towering, forlorn pile on my credenza awaiting the completion of paperwork that must be done before they can be submitted. I can do it…I really can. However, words cannot possibly convey just how much I loathe each and every piece of paperwork involved in my chosen profession. Because of this unhealthy hatred, I hired Kristen, and upon completion of a case, I hand the entire mess to her and force her to endure it for money. It’s a great system…I give her what I hate and she takes my money. But this week, she’s up there in the Land of Lakes frolicking in the low eighties with no humidity, taking naps in hammocks and drinking wine all day while I sit staring at this pile of files.

To make matters much worse, this morning my wife left for three days in Columbia, South Carolina to visit my daughter and help her set up her new classroom. This means I will be alone until Saturday afternoon. When your children grow up and leave the house, it’s called the empty nest. When your wife leaves for three days after the kids have left, it’s more like large, empty, abandoned medieval castle.

Not that there aren’t some advantages to being alone in your home. I can walk around in my underwear while drinking cranberry juice directly out of the bottle. That’s always a good time. I can go out on the deck and fire up a fine cigar any time I want and not have to hear about how bad I smell when I come back inside. But, if a man smokes a cigar on his deck while his wife is away and she isn’t there to smell him, did it really even happen?

When Pam is gone, I am essentially a lost puppy. When you finish up the last thing at work, it hits you that she isn’t waiting for you at home. Something inside you deflates a little. When you get home you look around at the place and everything seems stale and boring. How could a home that was warm and inviting just 12 hours ago suddenly look like a dump?

So you head over to Q or Big Al’s for dinner. There will be no made from scratch crab cakes, no bruschetta, no caprese tarts for you for a while. You’ll have to make do with pizza and chicken wings and chicken fingers. You probably won’t shave for a couple of days either. What’s the point? It’s embarrassing to admit that after 30 years of marriage you still attempt to impress your wife by looking as good as possible, partly out of fear that if you let myself go, she would suddenly realize how much better she could do!

So, today will be filled with paperwork, and then I will go home and begin planning a welcome home celebration for Saturday night!

Tony Stewart and Ferguson, Missouri

 

 

The death of Robin Williams had the effect of sweeping all other news out of the way yesterday, which I’m sure was a welcomed relief for Tony Stewart and the law abiding citizens of Ferguson, Missouri.

Stewart, the famously hot-headed race car driver had been the subject of intense scrutiny for his killing of another driver at a short track over the weekend. After being taken out by Stewart’s car, Kevin Ward, all of twenty years old, bolted out of his car and onto the middle of the track, determined to confront Stewart for his tactics. When next Stewart made his way around the track, instead of slowing down to avoid the lunatic in the middle of the road, Stewart appeared to accelerate, sending Ward flying and ultimately killing him. Bad news. The initial investigation by the local sheriff’s office has cleared Stewart of any wrongdoing, but many race fans suspect in their heart of hearts that Tony lashed out at the kid in a flash of rage, and gave in to his baser instincts.

Ferguson, Missouri, a suburb of St. Louis, had been the scene of a recurring pattern of violence all too familiar to Americans. A black teenager gets killed by a police officer in a confrontation on the mean streets of some American city. The circumstances of the killing aren’t fully known, but enough details emerge that suggest that the kid was unarmed. Like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, a “peaceful” candlelight vigil erupts into mindless mayhem and destruction of property. Soon, videos surface showing baggy-pants boys with baseball caps askew on their heads happily smashing the glass fronts of sporting goods stores making off with pairs of Air-Jordans, convenience stores making off with cases of beer, and Best Buys making off with big screen TV’s. Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton engage in a no holds barred race to be the first to arrive on the scene where one of them declares with not the slightest hint of remorse or irony, “There’s a Ferguson near you!”

I am not black. Therefore, I have never been the victim of racism. Consequently, any observation I may have about this sort of thing comes from my relative position of privilege. I can have a certain sympathy for the anger of a people who feel that one of their own might have been killed unjustly. But every time this happens, I watch the videos and read the descriptions of the violence and every time I ask myself, “Why aren’t those people attacking the police station, or the County Courthouse?” Isn’t their anger a result of injustice? If so, why not riot at the source of the perceived injustice? Why funnel all of your “anger” towards the destruction of businesses that had absolutely nothing to do with the killing? Why use the event of a tragedy to stock up on potato chips and tennis shoes?

We constantly hear the likes of Jackson and Sharpton decrying the fact that there aren’t enough businesses in the inner city to serve the needs of poor people. We hear them lament the fact that poor blacks in the inner city have to walk miles to find a grocery store that sells fresh produce. We are told that the reason that chain stores won’t locate in the inner city is because of their latent racism. But when I watch 16 year olds crashing trash cans into store front windows and then gleefully making off with thousands of dollars of inventory to the applause of everyone on the street, I wonder why any businessman would locate any business in the Ferguson, Missouri’s of the world.

Robin Williams RIP

 

 

I heard the news from my son in a text, Robin Williams had killed himself. He was to my generation what Jonathan Winters and Lucille Ball were to my Dad’s generation, a comedic genius. This morning I read about the details, addiction, depression, and wonder how he managed to live to be 63. The fires of brilliance burn bright and hot, then vanish, leaving the world a colder place.

The first time I ever saw him was on an episode of Happy Days where he played the whacky alien “Mork.” Even though that small role earned him his own show, “Mork & Mindy,” I seldom watched. My true introduction to Robin Willams was in his multiple appearances on Johnnie Carson’s Tonight Show. He would come out and do his standup comedy routines, then sit down for some of the most hilarious unscripted interviews ever filmed. Do yourself a favor and look them up on YouTube. They are a feast of manic, rapid-fire wit and energy that leave you exhausted from laughter.

He could be profane. His HBO specials were heavy on “F” bombs when they didn’t need to be. He didn’t have much patience with Republicans or conservatives, not exactly a unique position in Hollywood. Some of his routines were heavy on religious themes. One of my favorites was his Top Ten Reasons to be an Episcopalian, #10 No snake handling, #6 all the pageantry…none of the guilt.

Williams was an improvisational genius. He had a manic energy and lightening quick mental reflexes that made you think that he must certainly be on speed, which he probably was. Some say that his battles with depression began when his good friend John Belushi died of a drug overdose in 1982. Apparently the battle raged on for the rest of his life until he couldn’t cope with life any longer.

On the surface, it’s hard to comprehend how someone so talented, successful, well-respected and wealthy would ever kill themselves. It speaks to the debilitating power of depression, as deadly a disease as there is in this world.  

For the record, my favorite Williams movies are Dead Poet’s Society, and Moscow on the Hudson.

“Oh Captain, my captain” May he rest in peace.

Great Weekend!

 

 

Observations from the weekend:

Saturday’s mailbox contained a 5x7 envelope addressed to me from Bliley’s funeral home. Inside was a picture of my Mom and Dad. It must have been left behind from the viewing.

I can’t tell what the occasion was, probably a birthday. The minute I saw it, I felt the sharp pain of loss. It’s so strange how one can go days without even giving it a thought, but one word, one fleeting memory, one photograph can bring it all back, fresh and powerful.

Mark Becton preached a whale of a sermon yesterday. I have often shared my frustrations and criticisms of my church in this space. What I haven’t been as good at is communicating the blessings I receive there. Yesterday, he totally nailed his sermon. It was relevant, well-researched, well-illustrated and challenging.

Pam and I are really getting into this empty nest thing. After our impromptu trip to Bear Creek Lake on Friday, we cooked pork tenderloin on the grill Saturday night and binge-watched several episodes of The Boss. After church Sunday, Pam and I did something we never, ever do together…we watched sports on television!! That’s right, after a dinner of BLT sandwiches made with tomatoes from my garden/deck, the PGA tournament was still on because of a rain delay and Pam showed a genuine interest in the proceedings. To my amazement, she watched for nearly an hour with me and seemed to enjoy it. It probably didn’t hurt that Rory McElroy and Ricky Fowler were “cute.” Still, I can count on one hand the number of sporting events that she has watched with me for over ten minutes over the entirety of our life together. It was so much fun.

But, today is Monday and back to work I go. However, in a mere 108 more hours, I get to spend another weekend alone in this big old house with Pam Dunnevant.

Can’t wait.